‘Supper,’ he said.
‘And calm,’ Harry remarked. He and Bowler were almost friends, now; he had seen no one else for the past ten days.
‘Aye. Lucky for you.’
‘Think you so? Can you not smell?’
‘What’s a smell?’ Bowler asked. ‘We can see America.’
Harry raised his head.
‘Long Island, they calls it,’ Bowler told him. ‘Just south of that is the island of Manhattan, and the rivers. We berth off that island.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ Harry said. ‘It’ll be a relief to get ashore.’
‘To be hanged? They’ll not waste too much time with you, boy.’
‘Do you believe I assaulted that girl, Mr Bowler? She came looking for me.’
Bowler sighed. ‘Maybe, boy. Maybe. If she did that she’s a right prick tease. Most of them are, I reckon. But you sure assaulted Mr Crombie, now. That was the guilty act. The girl might have cost you a flogging. Striking an officer … there’s no redress to that.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, boy, but you dug your own grave. And like the man said, you had the makings of a good seaman. Eat your food.’ He went aft again, to the ladder leading upwards. The ladder he would only mount once more in his life, Harry thought bitterly. What a crazy world it was, to be sure. Would he not have done better to let Sean O’Rourke run him through, and gone chasing to hell after old Boru? Great Boru! Then at least his family would know what had happened to him. And could grieve, and then, eventually, forget.
Whereas now … he had sailed away, and he would never come back. If Bartlett had indeed quarrelled with O’Rourke, it was unlikely any word of Harry McGann’s fate would ever get back to Tramore. They would wait, at the end of August, and then again throughout September, and October … and perhaps even for years after that. Bridget … Pa … Ma … Charlie and Jenny, little Rory. They would wait, for the news that would never come.
All because of a girl, with whom he had no business ever to have involved himself.
It would certainly have been better to have let that anchor tear the ship open and drown them all. He had saved their lives, and as a reward and because of a misunderstanding, they would hang him.
He chewed the hard beef and mouldy biscuit, drank the evil tasting water, and lay back against the bulkhead. This was probably his last night on earth. No, they would not hang him the moment he landed, there would be the semblance of a trial.
On deck they would be looking at America. He had anticipated that sight with considerable curiosity. He had never anticipated that America would be his grave; he could come to no harm on a Bartlett ship, Josiah Bartlett had assured him and his parents.
The hold was now utterly dark. He thought about the girl, closing his eyes as there was no point in keeping them open. Not even confinement and lack of exercise, dull despair and the very real fear of approaching death, had interfered with his sleep, for which he was truly thankful. Because when he slept, he dreamed. Invariably about her. She had entered his life like a storm at sea, and picked him up and swept him along, again like a storm at sea, and would finally drown him, as a storm at sea was always likely to do. And yet, like a storm at sea, he supposed she was unaware of her own part in it. She was just a girl, on the threshold of becoming a woman, who by her beauty and her uncertainty sent men to their dooms. And she was beautiful. He had been flogged because he had objected to one of the hands calling her ‘big-titted’. Well, he had now touched one of those breasts, and it had certainly been large, and soft, and sweet to feel. His last memory would be of that breast, most likely.
But there were also things like the scent of her, and the sound of her, the touch of her … he opened his eyes. ‘Holy Mother!’ he whispered.
‘Ssssh.’ She knelt in front of him, once again wearing an undressing gown over the night-dress.
‘And if I holler for help,’ he said, ‘will I not at least have the pleasure of knowing your dad will take a stick to your ass?’
She gazed at him, an indistinct white blur in the darkness. Perhaps, he thought, she was so well bred she did not even know what portion of her anatomy he meant. ‘We are off New York,’ she said.
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘And we will certainly enter the harbour tomorrow,’ she went on. ‘Captain Passmore has said that he will use the boats to tow us in if the wind does not rise. I will not be able to help you, then.’
‘But you would like to help me now,’ he remarked.
She held up her right hand to show him the bunch of keys, and his heart gave a tremendous leap.
‘Can you swim?’ she asked.
‘Of course I can swim. I was born and bred in Tramore.’
‘It is hardly less than a mile to the beach,’ she said.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘I would not have you hang, Harry. I am sorry about that night. I had not supposed … 1 … you came at me too sharply, Harry. I am not to be raped.’
‘I do not understand you at all, Miss Bartlett,’ he confessed. ‘I had gained the impression that you liked me, once.’
‘I do like you, Harry. Very much. More, I am aware of how much I owe you.’
‘And so you invite me to touch you, and when I do, you scream for help.’
‘I did not invite you to touch me, sir,’ she pointed out. ‘I indicated that I liked you sufficiently that one day, to have you touch me might be acceptable to me.’
‘Then you changed your mind. And now you have changed your mind again.’
‘I have not changed my mind,’ she said, charging her patience with asperity.‘But I am still aware that I owe you my life, doubly. Nor did I ever intend to endanger yours. Please believe that, Harry. Now, if you will let me, I will set you free. As free as I can, to be sure. But if you are a capable swimmer, as you say you are, and a bold and determined man, as I know you are, I have no doubt that freedom can be yours.’
‘I am too much of a beggar to refuse such bounty,’ he said.
She hesitated, then came closer, inserted the first key into the lock of his handcuffs, and turned it. Then she took them off herself, and he could massage his wrists. The lock on the ankle chain was more difficult to open, and to reach it properly she had to come against him, nose wrinkled at the stench from the bilge beneath where he had been sitting for ten days. He could not stop himself from closing his hands on her thighs. Again she hesitated for a moment, then resumed working on the lock, and with a click it opened.
‘Will you now let me go?’ she asked, without looking at him.
‘I could take whatever I want from you, Elizabeth Bartlett,’ he said. ‘And I want so much from you. And then I would die with a smile on my face.’
‘And I would sadly have misjudged you, as I took you for a gentleman, and have dealt with you as such, and as I have supposed that you would rather live with a smile on your face.’
Harry released her. ‘They will know I was aided,’ he said.
‘But not by whom. What, will they imprison the entire ship’s company? However, I give you my word that if any man is endangered by my action, I shall admit it, and abide by the consequences. Now you must make haste, as must I, back to my berth.’
He caught her arm. ‘Now you have settled your debt.’
She smiled. ‘Not entirely. I still owe you one life.’
‘And suppose, one day, I came to your house to claim that life, wearing broadcloth and leather, and with gold coin jingling in my pockets … would you be pleased to see me?’
‘Why, Mr McGann,’ she said. ‘I would be pleased to see you at any time, providing it can be done with safety to us both. And honour to us both.’
‘Then you have my word, Elizabeth Bartlett, that I shall seek you out, with both profit and honour.’ He smiled in turn. ‘That should satisfy your father as well as yourself.’
‘I look forward to that day, sir.’ He could not properly make out her face in the gloom.
‘Then will you not allow me a ki
ss before you go? If I am caught again, it may well be the last pleasure I ever know.’ Another hesitation, then she came back to him. ‘A kiss, Mr McGann.’
He held her shoulders, and brought her against him, then found her lips. He had foresworn her forever, but nothing had ever tasted sweeter. Their tongues touched, and she shivered, then gently drew away. ‘I shall expect you, in New York, with honour and profit, in the course of time. But also with safety, Mr McGann. Allow me time to reach my berth.’
*
He waited, listening to the rustle of her as she made her way aft, inhaling the scent of her, which hung on the air. For a moment there he had been in paradise. And he would be in paradise again, he was determined. Nothing would stop him now, even if he did indeed have to take on the entire crew.
When he felt he had allowed her sufficient time, he crawled to the ladder, made his way up, hand over hand, and reached the hatchway to the main deck. There he paused, to watch and listen. The ship lay dead in the water, rolling gently. The yards had been sheeted tight, and yet banged against the masts. Each gentle wavelet slapped the hull. The watch would be well forward, he estimated, and no doubt half asleep.
He crawled away from the hatch, gazing aft, where one of the officers and the helmsman stood, waiting for the breeze which must eventually come. Neither was looking forward, so far as he could make out.
He reached the gunwale, slid over it, and landed on the shrouds outside, his hands wrapped around the tarred rope; from this he lowered himself until he hung only a few feet above the water. Only then did he remember that he needed to ascertain the direction in which he must swim. He looked past the bows, and saw a light, winking on the horizon, and then another. By half closing his eyes and staring he thought he could even make out the long line of the coast. Hardly a mile away, indeed. He drew a long breath, and dropped straight down, keeping his arms above his head to reduce the risk of a splash.
Immediately he was surprised by the coldness of the water, which all but drove the breath from his lungs. Then he was swept beneath the hull, and bumped his head on the wood before he emerged aft of the ship. He heard voices from the poop deck, but now they were looking forward, and discussing the possible cause of the splash. He used a breast stroke to ease himself away from the ship, allowing only his head to break the surface to breathe, until he felt sure they would not find him, even if they knew where to look. Anyway, no alarm had been sounded. Nor was one likely now, before dawn.
He began to swim, strongly and steadily, towards the shore. He knew he was not in the best condition, after his fortnight in the brig, but he had no doubt of his strength. Nor was he afraid of fish; the coldness of the water reassured him that he was unlikely to encounter any of the tropical predators of which he had read. The cold was in fact his only problem. It struck through his flesh at his bones, made him feel far more tired than he really was. But he was not going to give up now. He had been allowed a new lease on life. And more, a new ambition — just to turn up in New York, one day, wearing as he had promised, broadcloth and leather, a sword on his hip and golden coin jingling in his pockets, to tell Josiah Bartlett to do his damndest. That was a dream he would make come true.
Meanwhile, think of Elizabeth, lying there in her bunk, wondering what had become of him, whether he was alive or dead. Think of the touch of her lips on his, and even more, her tongue on his. Think of the smell of her and the feel of her. If that was his last memory, then he would go to eternity with a smile on his lips.
His feet touched sand before he had realised he was that close. He stumbled through the last of the shallows, then dropped to his knees. He was cold, but too exhausted to move further.
He lay there until the sun rose, then sat up with a start, mouth and throat parched. He looked left and right, at a sandy beach backed by dunes through which sparse grass poked itself. Then out to sea. There was still hardly any breeze, and the Spirit of the West was much closer than he had anticipated. They might well have missed him by now, might send a boat after him, knowing that he could only have made for the beach. Hastily he crawled up into the dunes, there lay down and looked back again; at least now they would not be able to see him. But he couldn’t make out anyone on the deck of the ship without a telescope — although certainly no boat had been lowered. Either they had not yet missed him or they assumed he was drowned.
However, clearly he could not stay where he was. His most urgent need was water, and then some clothes. He wore only his breeches, and if these had dried, they were sticky with salt and covered with sand. He had not shaved in several days, and he had no shoes. Yet somehow he had to get to New York and find himself a ship sailing east, just as rapidly as possible.
He looked at the sun, rising behind the ship. Bowler had said the harbour lay to the south. He turned to his right and commenced walking. His mouth was agony now, and his stomach was starting to rumble, while his limbs felt like lead, but he forced himself onwards, through the bushes and up and down little hills and shallow valleys, heading away from the sea into a world of wooded copses and open meadows, every so often tearing his feet on thorns or burrs but stopping for no longer than to brush the offending object away. He listened to birds singing and bees buzzing, and gained an impression of a land as lush as Ireland. But saw no people.
In the middle of the morning he at last found a large puddle of fresh water, no doubt left by recent rain. This tasted like nectar, and soon after that he came across some cherry trees which he raided. Now he felt stronger, and thought he would walk until the sun was exactly overhead, and then rest for a while. But only half an hour later he found himself on a track, leading north and south, and sufficiently rutted to suggest that it was regularly used by wheeled vehicles. He followed this and eventually saw the roof of a house over the next shallow rise.
He sat down to rest, and consider the situation. Obviously he looked exactly what he was, a fugitive. Therefore he had to decide on a tale, as to what he was fleeing from, which would be acceptable to the people he was about to meet. Supposing anything would be acceptable to them.
‘You move a muscle, less I say so, young fellow,’ a man said. ‘And I’ll blow your head off.’
Harry had to resist the temptation not to get up. ‘So what do I do?’ he inquired, feeling the adrenalin starting to flow.
‘Well, I reckon you should stand up, nice and slow.’
Harry obeyed, while reminding himself that if necessary he would have to kill this man. Something else he had never contemplated doing. But did he not now hate all mankind?
‘Well, I’ll be darned,’ said the man. ‘Sure there’s just one of you inside there?’
‘Just one,’ Harry said.
‘And you’re Irish,’ the man remarked. He came round in front to look at his prisoner. He was a small man, dressed in clearly homemade clothes, with a skin cap on his head — Harry had no idea what animal it came from — but carrying a very serviceable looking musket in his hands, and Harry could tell, because his father possessed a similar weapon, that the gun had one of the new rifled barrels, and could be accurate up to half a mile. Not that it would need all that much accuracy here, as it was being pointed at his stomach from a distance of six feet.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m Irish.’
‘Not a be-Jesus Papist, are you?’
Harry did some rapid thinking. But he was not disposed to abjure his religion, even if it brought the critical moment closer — besides, he still wore his crucifix. ‘I’m Irish,’ he said again ‘And on the run from the British, I’ll bet,’ the man said. ‘You’ve the look of a sailorman. Navy, was it? I saw them stripes on your back.’ Harry had forgotten they were still there. And he was slowly realising that, incredibly, there was less hostility than sympathy in both the man’s tone and expression. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I jumped ship.’
The man rested his rifle on his left shoulder and extended his right hand. ‘I’m John Palmer.’
Feeling totally bemused, Harry took the offered finge
rs. ‘I’m Harry McGann.’
‘Any man what fights the British is a friend of mine,’ Palmer said.
‘But …’ Harry scratched his head. ‘Aren’t you British yourself?’ Palmer was certainly an English name.
‘British, hell,’ Palmer said. ‘I’m an American.’
‘Ah,’ Harry said, not sure he understood the difference.
‘I’ll bet you could do with some food and drink.’ Palmer said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Harry agreed.
‘And a shave. And maybe something to wear.’ Palmer stroked his chin. ‘That’ll be a task, that will. You come along with me. The farm’s over there.’
Harry realised that he had fallen on his feet, although he still didn’t quite understand the situation. Even in Ireland it would be unusual to find a man who would openly flaunt his opposition to British rule to a total stranger. Yet Palmer apparently had no fears whatsoever about doing so. And indeed he had fallen on his feet. He was taken to the log-walled farmhouse, surrounded by barking dogs and lowing cattle, to meet Mrs Palmer, and her son and two daughters, teenagers younger than himself, who regarded his size with some apprehension at first, but became utterly friendly when told by their father that he was a deserter from the Royal Navy, a misapprehension Harry decided against correcting, for the time being. Food was placed in front of him, great wheat cakes smothered in fresh milk and honey, and a flagon of whisky produced for him to drink, although it was hardly noon.
‘You need rest, Mr McGann,’ Mrs Palmer said. ‘Rest, and food. And a shirt for your back. You lie up here a day or two, and I’ll stitch up something for you to wear. It won’t be anything you’d want to be seen in on Boston Common, you understand, but it’ll cover your nakedness.’
He had come to this place determined to hate, because only in hating did there lie security. But that was no longer possible. He wondered if life had anything more to offer than what he now found around him, at least in purely physical terms. With the aid of his son and daughters, John Palmer farmed a considerable acreage, for which he had paid nothing, on which he owed nothing. Except for gunpowder and the occasional luxury for his women folk, together with the material they needed for their clothes — although Mrs Palmer and her daughter did most of their own spinning — he needed nothing from the world, and the money he obtained from the occasional sale of a cow or the eggs his hens produced in abundance more than covered those needs. More important, to Harry’s thinking, he touched his cap to no man, and no man’s son had the right to raise his stick to any Palmer, save he sought a beating.
Old Glory Page 7
